Rivulets
by checkerboardBeast
Summary: It s been a rough day, he thinks. At least what s done is long behind him, face down in an alley somewhere. It s bound to get better soon enough, though. Right? Modern AU


Rivulets of blood like pools of water, seeming as deep as the ocean until he dabs them away. The wet cloth feels cold and rough to the soft skin of his face, neck, knuckles. Not just once he stops his tending to hiss quietly.

A black eye with a split lip to match, along with the slight scratches and the red heat of half his face. It all looks so unreal in the mirror, he seems almost back-lit, but the light travels too good and the shadows are in the wrong places - the crook where his eyelid tucks into the socket, accentuated by the smear of blood stuck in his lashes, another shadow below the nose looks more painted on that anything and he sees the strangest kind of hollowness in his own eyes.

Jon Snow is standing hunched in the bathroom, feeling very disenchanted with every possible thing. He'd gotten the bruise and the split lip from some dude who`d been too aggressively persuaded for his own good. It Hadn't been Jon`s intention to start a fight, truly. He'd even taken two punches before lashing back, just to make sure it was serious. But, too bad, the fuck had been serious.

Jon hadn't backed down from the tray either. He reminiscences on a particularly heavy hit he'd landed. He hopes he broke the others jaw - it would have been well deserved. Just getting drunk and then harassing teenagers in the streets, all while reeking of cigarettes and liquor and piss and vomit, how stupid. And quite disgusting, honestly. Jon`s nose wrinkles at the very memory.

At least he'd put him down. Not in the killing sense, gods forbid, but the man was in lying in an alley somewhere next to the bottle he'd smashed in the scuffle, face bloody, still reeking. Even though Jon knew the man belonged there, it felt odd to know it was his doing. Still, it didn't bother him too much.

The swelling on his face though, that was a different story altogether. Mrs Stark had given him that. And when the scab on his lip had opened and the inside of his cheek had been cut on his teeth, the blood tasted like shame and humiliation. Because that`s exactly what Mrs Stark had done. Humiliated him.

But the slap had been nothing compared to the words. Mrs Stark had accommodated him with a very strict talking-to (or had that been a talking-down-to? Sure felt like it.) She'd called him an animal. And the tone of voice, the look in her eye, it almost felt as if she'd been practicing. Oh, Catelyn had anticipated this, had waited patiently and passive-aggressively for him to fuck up something. Can`t say she had waited in vain, too, he thinks, and he more sees the face in the mirror twist into a grimace than feels his own face mimic it.

And the Stark children had been there too, just for the whole nine yards. Standing by the wall all stiff like marble statues, watching the events with shocked apprehensive looks, keeping so utterly silently quiet they may have actually been confused with rocks.

He`d walked away from that room feeling misconducted, like an innocent accused of someone else`s crimes. Though, at the same time he had felt like a dog, fleeing from an angry owner with his tails between his legs.

Catelyn had called him an animal, after all. It was a fitting way to feel. (The revelation makes his skin and stomach churn, he almost wants to sob at the blatant dehumanization)

He can't help but feel it`s a bit unfair, though as far as he sees back into his life, there`s always been some dis-balance. He`s always been on the wrong side of the scales. The anomaly. Eddard had tried to even it out, the whole time never succeeding fully. Eddard had a wife to consider. They compromised, discussed, often huffily and irate, rarer times loudly and long and angry

(and no one else in the room but god the whole house shook with their voices and as a child Jon had hid under the bed, tried to block out the sound with little palms over his ears and it never quite worked as well as it was supposed to, but now he just sat by it, face in his knees, feeling angry and useless so fucking useless and somewhat guilty, they were arguing over him of all people god damn it and he soaked in the arguments, they slid into his sinews and blood and bones and sometimes his knees got wet with salt)

It was quiet now, at least. As far as he could hear throughout the giant mansion of a house, they only noise was that could be made out was the slight trickle of water, from the very room he was in. Jon sighs. He`s mostly calmed down by now. The adrenalin has seeped from his blood, the shame and the guilt have rolled like rocks off his heart for now too.

When done with cleaning and bandaging his wounds, he slinks from bathroom to his own room. It`s on the top floor (he`s pretty sure it`s attic territory) but at least it`s spacious, a nice 3, room with three large windows, one of them being round with a ledge thick and sturdy enough to sit on.

His Tamaskan, Ghost, had been sleeping on his bed, but throws it`s head up to look at Jon with seeming surprise when Jon sits down on the bed next to the dog. The cotton sheets have dirt stains on them, again. Jon thinks he`ll never understand how Ghost manages to get dirt there, every time without fail. He sighs, extends a hand to pet Ghost, but it gets up from sleeping and starts licking at his face, ears flat against it`s head.

"Thanks, boy"

Jon mutters, voice soft, threading his fingers through the course strands of fur. Ghost is comforting him, licking at his wounds. Then, Ghost suddenly jumps with it`s front paws to Jon`s shoulders, overbalancing him, and Jon topples with a surprised sound. It hadn't been on purpose. Ghost was just excited to see Jon and worried about how down he seemed.

"Hey, now! Ghost!"

But Ghost just resumes the licking treatment to Jon's face, and he can't help but huff out laughter. That seems to satisfy the dog, it backs off from his face to flop down on his chest. Ghost`s belly is impossibly warm, heat noticeable, even through Jon`s jacket and shirt.

He pets the tamaskan as it settles to sleep again. Muzzle on his shoulder and Jon feels the warm breath on his ear.

Here, laying down, it feels like today has been a dream. The fight, the talk, all of it. He feels so indifferent to it at this point. Catelyn had been edgy all week, too, and while he knows not her reasons, he will try and not be too bitter. She isn't all bad, not always. She`s shown him kindness at points, too. Its actually quite plausible that she'll apologize at some point, given enough time.

He gradually realizes a throb in his face. Hot like blood, agitated skin. The footprints of violence, gracing him, razing him of his calm, pale winter face.

And still he feels it it, he remembers it, sees it when he finally shuts his eyes. Rivulets of blood like pools water, seeming as deep as oceans.

Scabs like outward cracks on a floor.

Bruises bloomed wide like violet sunflowers with green and blue corners still spreading outwards, as if swallowing his whole face.

And out of place somewhat, half his face inflamed and stinging, in the shape of a hand, as if there has been fury rained down unto him.

Jon Snow would avoid all violence if it was his choice to make.


End file.
